Everyone in Providence knows about Piazza di Amore, the small Italian restaurant tucked away on a side street off Federal Hill. It’s not one of the big places with valet parking and red neon signs promising “authentic” pasta. It doesn’t even have a sign outside — just a single old-fashioned style lantern, twinkling above a door painted a bold & unapologetic red. But if you know, you know. Piazza di Amore isn’t just a restaurant; it’s an experience, a legend. Some say the pasta there has ruined all other food for some people. Others swear it’s cursed— or blessed, depending on your perspective.
The rumor? Couples who share a meal there either fall hopelessly in love or never speak to each other again.
As someone who’d been single for far too long and was deeply skeptical of romantic folklore, I never paid much attention to the place. That is, until I found myself standing outside its red door one cold February evening, staring at the tiny brass plaque that read, “Amore al Dente: Love Is in the Pasta.”
It was my best friend Martin’s idea. “It’s Valentine’s season, and you’re stuck in this funk,” they said. “If nothing else, you’ll get a good meal out of it.”
The catch? I couldn’t go alone.
“The magic only works if you share the meal,” Martin explained. They weren’t coming along — they had plans with their partner — but they had a solution.
“I found someone.”
“You what?” I asked, horrified.
“You’ll like him,” they said. “His name’s Marco. He’s cute, single, and loves Italian food. Meet him there at 7pm.”
I almost backed out a dozen times, but the thought of a quiet night at home with leftovers felt wrong. So, at 7:01 p.m., I pushed open the heavy red door and stepped inside.
The restaurant was smaller than I expected, barely ten booths. Candles flickered in wine bottles, and the scent of garlic and basil hung in the air like an omen. A man stood near the host’s stand, fidgeting with the buttons of his coat. He looked up as I walked in.
“You must be Clara,” he said, offering a smile that was slightly sheepish but warm. “I’m Marco.” So far, so good.
The host led us to a cozy two-top in the corner, and within moments an older woman in a black dress and a chunky pearl necklace appeared.
“I’m Giovanna,” she said in a thick Italian accent. “Tonight, there is no menu. I cook for you, what you need. Trust me?” Before either of us could respond, she vanished into the kitchen.
“Bold move,” Marco said, lightly chuckling. “Letting a stranger decide your dinner.”
“I think that’s the whole point,” I replied, trying not to overthink the situation. The warmth of the place was starting to work on me. It felt intimate, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist outside those velvet red walls.
The first dish arrived within minutes: a plate of crostini with a smear of whipped ricotta, drizzled with honey and cracked black pepper. Giovanna appeared briefly to explain: “For sweetness,” she said, tapping her temple. “To remind you to enjoy.”
We shared the plate, talking about nothing and everything—our favorite restaurants, his work as a graphic designer, my disastrous attempts at baking. It wasn’t forced, the way so many first meetings are. By the time the main course arrived, we were laughing like old friends.
And the pasta? It was unforgettable. Handmade pappardelle, tossed in a sauce of slow-braised short rib, tomatoes, and red wine. Giovanna lingered as she set it down, her sharp eyes glinting in the candlelight.
“Pasta,” she said, “Is like love. If it’s overcooked, it falls apart. If it’s undercooked, it’s too tough. But when it’s just right…” She kissed her fingertips and smiled.
“Amore al dente,” Marco said, raising his fork. I laughed, feeling the kind of lightness I hadn’t felt in months. Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the pasta. Or maybe it was Marco.
As the night went on, the restaurant seemed to transform. The lights felt softer, the music quieter. Couples at other tables leaned closer, their conversations hushed and intimate. Giovanna floated between tables like a benevolent matchmaker, refilling glasses and occasionally whispering something that made people smile.
Dessert arrived as a surprise — a single tiramisu, served in a delicate glass bowl. “One spoon,” Giovanna said, setting it in the center of the table. “Share it.”
We hesitated, but only for a moment. It was absurdly good — the kind of dessert that makes you close your eyes and sigh after every bite. Marco and I took turns, our hands occasionally touching as we passed the spoon back and forth. By the time the bowl was empty, I didn’t want the night to end.
After dinner, Marco walked me to my car, the cold air biting at our cheeks. “So,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Do you think the rumors are true? About the restaurant?”
I thought about it — the way the night had unfolded, the way I felt lighter, freer, more open than I had in years. “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe it’s just really good pasta.”
Marco grinned. “Either way, I’d say it worked.” He hesitated, then added, “Would you want to do this again? Maybe without the matchmaking?”
I smiled, feeling the warmth from the restaurant still lingering. “I’d like that.”
It’s been almost a year now, and Marco and I still argue over what made that night special. He says it was Giovanna’s intuition, her ability to read people and cook them what they need. I think it’s simpler than that. Love isn’t about grand gestures or perfect moments. It’s about showing up, sharing a meal, and letting yourself believe — just a little — in magic.
And in Rhode Island, magic always tastes like pasta. •
This is a work of fiction. While you will not find Giovanna on Federal Hill, you may find many culinary connoisseuses like her in that fabled neighborhood.
You can find the author on her business insta @rhodetogoodfood
